Dan Silver hangs out with Korn in Liverpool and witnesses total fan
hysteria! There are plenty of politically correct, self-appointed
spokespersons for a nation who will go to great lengths to eradicate the
proliferation of regional stereotypes. At best they're mildly upsetting,
at worst genuinely insulting (and I should know, being a cockney who
lived in Essex), but, as the proverb goes, there's no smoke without fire.
This afternoon, Liverpool's much maligned reputation has taken a further
battering: some "fans" have stolen a selection of Korn vocalist Jonathan
Davis' custom made (and thus extremely valuable) Adidas clothes,
including a couple of pairs of his rather fetching sequinned tracksuit
bottoms. The normally mild-mannered singer is not best pleased, but then
that's one of the problems with being the hottest metal band in the world
-- everybody wants a piece of you.

Jonathan's flight case-cum-wardrobe was, you see, too heavy to carry up
the back stairs of Liverpool's aptly named Krazy House venue, and was thus
carelessly left, unattended, by the open loading doors. "Well, it is
Liverpool", snorts Hammer snapper Mac, adding weight to a couple of
bystanding fans' concern that their city's name is about to be dragged
through the mud once more.

"Someone ripped off your pants? Ha ha ha!" laughs Korn's beefy bass
player Fieldy, breaking off from taunting Steve, ace Lee-Hurst-look-a-like
and drummer of support band Bullyrag. "No, really, that's fucked up," he
adds in a more serious vein before returning to his sport once more.
"Anyway, you should change your name to Bullyfags!" Any message for the
tea leafs, Fieldy? "Yeah, I sure hope they look good on ya." For Jonathan
it's just another chapter in what is already a pretty dismal day.
Suffering from a pretty nasty cold which, by his own admission, has turned
him into a ball of mucus and shot, matters are not helped by the fact that
Korn are about to play their third gig in two days. "My cold sucks,"
sniffs Jonathan. "I fucking hate being sick. It's a waste of time. I feel
like shit and I can't play as well as I possibly could. Every time I come
to Europe I get sick for some fucking reason. Always."

The remainder of Korn are wisely holed up in their hotel rooms,
leaving Jonathan and Fieldy to mill about playing coin-ops and a highly
competitive round of table football (the singer won by a country mile, if
you're interested, a result achieved as much by furious spinning and
Fieldy's inability to see the need for moving the goalie).

Then comes the soundcheck, the most unglamorous and downright tedious
point of any concert, especially considering that Korn's highly talented
tub thumper David is a perfectionist to the point where he insists on
checking each drum individually, pounding his skins one by one at
head-cracking volume for nigh on 40 minutes. "Soundchecks are a pain in
the arse," agrees Jonathan, eager to get it out of the way and grab a
beer (or six). Outside, the waiting crowd of Korn fanatics stretches
'round the block and it's still a good hour until the doors are scheduled
to open. Amidst the throng of mad-for-it Scousers we spot the familiar
face of Kevin Strange, last month's Korn superfan who's made the trip up
from London for the show. Now that's dedication.

When the floodgates are opened, it's premature: the police, patrolling
the area in flak jackets and squad cars loaded with some serious-looking
firepower, have ordered the Krazy House management to get the kids inside
and off the streets, obviously fearing large-scale trouble from the
800-strong capacity crowd. Like I said, stereotypes, man....

As the time for California's premier extreme metal act to hit the
stage approaches, Korn's spacious dressing room has adopted a rather
surreal edge. The venue's promoter is chatting to Pete, the band's
manager, while juggling apples from the rider. The up to now
comparatively reserved guitarist J. Munky Shaffer is lying in a heap on
the floor, demanding that Pete be given a plentyful supply of passes to
distribute to young girlies in the audience before declaring, bottle of
Bud in hand, that he's too drunk to play.

With superb timing, Fieldy bounds into the room, stands stock still,
and then states with full sincerity that he's had too much to drink and
will not be able to take to the stage. At this point Jonathan leaps from
his chair brandishing an impressive long wooden pole, threatening to spear
the hapless guitar player through the heart should he even consider
dropping out of the gig. Wisely, Munky opts to retreat to the toilet for
his pre-gig ritual - "The Munky shit" - instead. Discussion then turns to
Donington, and then to the size of Dino Cazares' breasts (a D-cup,
reckons Fieldy - at least!). Time to leave....

The gig itself is typically manic and not without incident. A rammed
and overcapacity Krazy House is swiftly turned into the world's largest
Turkish bath, complete with stage-divers coming as thick and furious as
wasps on the swarm. On their current short tour, British and European
crowds have gone Korn krazy. It's a fact that has not escaped the band.

"I hate to fucking bag on the US," enthuses Fieldy after the show,
"but European crowds are better."

"In the US it's all about violence. They just hit each other, beating
up on 12-year-olds; European crowds shred, they fucking hop! I think it's
'cause they're so sick of eating cheese, they just hop. They have fun! US
bitches better get a clue or we're never gonna play there again."

"Do you remember New Brunswick?" chips in Jonathan. "This guy gets up
on stage, comes up to me and goes POW! right in my mouth, grabs my mic and
starts singing! What did I do? Socked him right back!"

Speaking of violence, at one point during the set it looks as if
everything's about to go off here too, albeit between a member of
security and Care Bear, the far-from-soft-and-cuddly-man-mountain who
guards Korn's stage, ejecting crap divers. After a misunderstanding in
the heat of the moment, followed by threatening pointing and shoving, the
sidestage tension increases a notch or two. Care Bear is later heard
asking various band members if they'll bail him out should he get
arrested, before heading off in search of said security man. Not nice.

Still, there have also been many magic moments on this tour so far,
Jonathan's best coming in Glasgow. "I cried. The biggest dream in life
for me was to play bagpipes in Scotland for people. I busted them out and
the crowd started singing 'Flower Of Scotland'. I knew what it was and I
cried. That was the best show I ever had in my career. I thought people
would think, 'Who is this American guy coming to our country and playing
bagpipes?' To sing the national anthem at me though...."

Then again, not every gig goes so well. In America the band have had
black witches come up to them after their show and attempt to put curses
on them. Manager Pete also relates a fine anecdote relating to how Korn
have been banned from playing the Desert Sky Pavilion in Phoenix, Arizona,
after their fans constructed huge bonfires - and then stole the fire
hoses that security attempted to douse the flames with and burned those
too, racking up $15,000 worth of damage.

It's now midnight and the dressing room is awash with beer, Bullyrag
and women (one distressed female approached myself and Korn's press
officer, distraught that her 15-year-old sister had been whisked off
backstage!), while Fieldy is lolling around with a bottle of vodka,
initiating mass choruses of Cameo's 'Word Up'. It's at this point that
everything goes, well.... pear-shaped. Security arrive and present a
suitably soused Jonathan with his missing clothing. Apparently the
thieves had turned up at the gig wearing the stolen clobber (duh!). A
genuine fan reported them and gave security their home adresses. One
half-mile trek later and the goods are once more back in safe hands. The
sozzled singer is once more moved close to tears....

A fairytale ending, then? Not on your life - this is Korn, remember.
As Jonathan's jubilant celebrations continue, he begins to singlehandedly
demolish a bottle of Jack Daniel's. We congregate on the Korn tour bus
and Jonathan takes the seat opposite mine, gulps further a large mouthful
of bourbon, smiles sweetly, coughs.... and then brings the lot back up
again, depositing the regurgitated whiskey inches from my feet, before
flashing a "butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth" smile. Now that's a finale!